


fame is the bait (and the switch is your desolate smile)

by nowrunalong



Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, DC Extended Universe, Man of Steel (2013)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Bars and Pubs, Bartender Clark Kent, Identity Porn, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-26
Updated: 2018-11-26
Packaged: 2019-08-27 01:36:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16692892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nowrunalong/pseuds/nowrunalong
Summary: "Superman,” Wayne says emphatically. "Now there’s an interesting guy. The concept of wealth probably doesn’t even register to an alien who could throw a whole skyscraper into the sea if he was in a snit.”It’s almost hilariously ironic that Wayne is saying this here, in Clark’s place of employment, where Clark works ten-hour shifts to earn enough tip money to pay rent on a one-bedroom apartment.“He’s gotta live somewhere,” Clark points out.Or: Clark meets Bruce, and then Superman meets Bruce Wayne. Neither is entirely fooled.





	fame is the bait (and the switch is your desolate smile)

**Author's Note:**

> DCEU continuity notes:
> 
> 1) Because this fic begins one week after the events of Man of Steel, Bruce is... far from Superman's biggest fan, sure, but he hasn't had a year to stew in his rage etc, so he's not thinking murderous thoughts yet.
> 
> 2) There is absolutely nothing to suggest that DCEU Clark went to college for journalism / is a writer, and as such is probably unqualified to be a reporter at a reputable newspaper. That's my rationale for bartender Clark here—in case you needed one :D
> 
> 3) Clark doesn't become aware of Bruce Wayne or Batman until months after MoS, so both are 100% off his radar at this point.
> 
> 4) For the sake of this story, Clark and Lois did not begin a romance in MoS.
> 
> Many, many thanks to [thirty2flavors](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thirty2flavors/works) for giving this a look over for me!! I appreciate you taking the time to read 8.7k words for a fandom you don't care about.

It’s only been a week of this, and already Gotham feels like a missing limb; a phantom part of him. Even in the wake of disaster, even with dust settling over all of its shine and splendor, Metropolis is so bright and so open and so goddamn hopeful. All the polish and perfection of downtown reduced to ashes, and its citizens still believe in goodness and purity. 

(Still believe an _alien_ can embody that goodness and that purity, and they’re calling him _Superman_.)

This pub isn’t as seedy as the ones Batman frequents in Gotham, but it’s enough to make Bruce feel a little more at home. Worn red booths and patrons laughing with varying degrees of inebriation; a bar with a truly mediocre selection of beers; a pin-up calendar tacked underneath the wide-screen television. He grabs a seat at the end of the bar and drapes his jacket over it before sitting down.

The bartender catches his eye and smiles warmly; holds up an index finger to say _I’ll be with you in just a second_. Bruce nods and turns his attention to the football game where Gotham is currently being pulverized by Metropolis. Of course.

“What can I do you for?” the bartender asks, all friendly Metropolis cheer, after handing off a flight of beers to a frazzled server.

Bruce raises an eyebrow at his word choice and gives the man a quick, habitual once-over: flannel button-up over broad shoulders, a hand at his waist accentuating narrow hips under forty dollar jeans, and Bruce could absolutely run with this if he had a modicum of energy, but the idea of performing Bruce Wayne’s sleazy come-ons after an entire goddamn week of performing Bruce Wayne’s insipid vacuousness makes him want to go screaming back to Gotham and devote himself to his undying mission until his body gives out and Bruce Wayne—

(—stupid, powerless, _human_ —)

—becomes irrelevant.

“Uh—I’ll grab you a whiskey,” the bartender says, and Bruce’s gaze snaps belatedly back up to his face. The man blinks behind his glasses—his eyes are startlingly blue—and directs a sympathetic smile at Bruce before he turns to grab a bottle of Jack from the shelf.

Bruce shouldn’t let his exhaustion show, not—not here, not in public, he can—he can still—

“You seem like you’ve had a day,” the bartender says, setting the drink down in front of Bruce.

Bruce huffs out half a laugh before he can help it. Seven days since the city center was demolished, and nothing he can do to restore normalcy—nothing he can do, point-blank, except show up and write checks and shake hands and say how _sorry_ he is for their loss, and her loss, and theirs, too, and—

“You could put it that way,” he agrees, and slides the glass closer. It leaves a trail of condensation on the counter: the bartender had forgotten to slap down a coaster. “Several, in fact.”

“Been hearing that a lot. Especially since—”

“Clark!” The server from earlier huffs out a sigh as she leans briefly against the end of the bar. “We’re out of Buffalo wings.”

“Right,” the bartender, Clark, says with a frown. “But it’s only—”

“I know, Jesus, it’s only nine o’clock, but Theresa says we never got the new delivery today, and we’ve gone through everything in the freezer. Something about another road getting blocked or God knows what, but we’ve still got, like, six things of chicken tenders. So there’s that.”

“Right,” Clark says again, and watches his coworker paste a tired smile back onto her face as she re-enters the throng of exuberantly drunk—

(— _mourners_ , all of them, because they’re just a couple blocks from the edge of the calamity, and anyone that’s here tonight knows someone who—who had lost a limb, or had their skull crushed by a skyscraper, and now they’re coping with that in the only ways they know—alcohol and camaraderie, humanity’s most beloved defenses against falling to the floor head-in-hands as if the sheer pressure of fingers on temples might prevent a psychological breakdown—)

—dancers. The speakers blare out eighties pop tunes; Don’t Stop Believin’ starts up, to the crowd’s delight. Bruce stifles a grimace as everyone in the bar simultaneously begins to sing.

“You don’t like this one?”

“It seems a bit twee, given the situation.” Bruce gestures with his chin in the direction of the kitchen. “I couldn’t help but overhear your friend, a moment ago.”

“Oh—about our dire lack of chicken wings?” Clark smiles, and for the first time since Bruce had sat down, an edge of tiredness pushes at the corners of Clark’s eyes, his mouth. “Truth be told, I kind of thought that things were done breaking. Rebuilding has been hard when the foundations are all—” He pauses and frowns, seemingly at himself. “But I guess it’s only been a week. Feels like longer.”

It feels like time has gone spinning out from under Bruce’s feet and all that’s left to stand on is this goddamn fucking _uselessness_. “Yeah,” Bruce says, in lieu of sharing that particular thought. His eyes snag on the ticker tape news headline scrolling along the bottom of the television, and he clenches his teeth. “Who knows, though, hey? Maybe Superman will have this all fixed up and gift-wrapped in time for Christmas.”

Clark’s body stiffens visibly, his arms going tense at his sides, and then—relaxes, forcibly, as he takes a breath. “I’m sure he’s trying,” he says, weariness drowning out the warmth in his voice.

“Hm.” Bruce regards him for a moment. “Do you think he gets tired?”

“Who,” Clark says in a strange, flat tone clearly designed to hide whatever emotion he’s feeling. He looks like he’d rather talk about anything else, but he doesn’t move.

“Superman.” Bruce speaks casually now, like he’s pondering whether the rain tomorrow will coincide with his morning commute. “Do you think he gets tired? I mean, he can lift a train without breaking a sweat. Does he even need to eat or sleep? Either way, I don’t see a reason why he shouldn’t keep going at it all night. I don’t see a reason why he shouldn’t try a _little_ harder.”

Clarks looks steadily back at him and blinks once, twice. And then, inexplicably, his goddamn smile is back, small and tired and infuriatingly genuine.

“I won’t fight with you, sir, if that’s what you’re looking for. People have been doing enough of that this week. I believe the only way we’ll get through this is by working together, no matter our difference of opinions.”

“How very noble.”

“No,” Clark says. “It’s just decency.”

“And I’m… indecent?” Bruce says, unable to keep the smirk out of his voice. He leans forward a little over the bar, arms crossed, and raises a curious eyebrow.

“That’s not exactly what I meant,” Clark says, and bites his lip.

He’s remarkably beautiful, even with his ill-fitting shirt and cheaply-made jeans. Bruce feels a stab of annoyance that his brain is bothering to point this out, but—but it’s merely objective, like the observation that Clark’s eyes are blue and that he’s wearing flannel— _Jesus_ , why—to his bartending job. It doesn’t make his misplaced righteousness any less annoying.

Perhaps a more interesting observation is that Clark had called him ‘sir’ as if he has no idea who—but maybe he doesn’t, after all, he hasn’t given any suggestion that he—

“Maybe that’s the Metropolis way,” Bruce says.

Clark tilts his head. “Oh,” he says. “You’re not from around here?”

 _God_ , Bruce thinks. Clark has no idea. He genuinely doesn’t know that Bruce is—that Bruce is Bruce _Wayne_ , philanthropist playboy with a reputation that taints every relationship, every passing interaction, every moment of his goddamn life he isn’t wearing the Suit. Clark simply doesn’t _know_.

“Gotham City, born and bred,” Bruce says, and if the penny doesn’t drop now—

“Gotham, huh?” Clark grins. “There _are_ some people who’d say you’re indecent over there. Do you all like to come to Metropolis to rile up hapless bartenders?”

—Clark _doesn’t_ know.

Bruce tries to smile and finds that it’s easy to do. “Oh, sure,” he says, and pushes his empty glass back toward Clark. “It’s a competitive sport. I’d hold the record for most fights started in one night if it weren’t for guys like you refusing to take the bait.”

“Gosh, I’m sorry,” Clark says, smiling back, and pours Bruce another whiskey.

He’s busy preparing drinks for a few of the rowdier tables after that, wincing sympathetically as the server—because there’s just the one working right now, despite the number of people demanding service, and Christ, is _everyone_ else at a hospital?—relays her tales of woe to him in passing. Bruce watches them work and thinks about how monumentally tiring it is to be an ordinary person in the wake of something so Earth-shaking. Everyone here can feel the exhaustion settling into their bones; it clings like ice to their insides, making every movement slower, more deliberate. Every man and woman dancing carelessly along to Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go will head home in a few hours and dream about the world collapsing in on itself until the inevitable feeling of _falling_ —of everything solid and sure dropping out from under their feet—jolts them awake.

With each sleepless night, the shadows under their eyes will get darker. Bruce can see it all around him already: the first week of tragedy etching itself into the faces of everyone it’s touched.

Clark checks in on him after a while, smile still resolutely plastered onto his face, and Bruce notices that—his glasses must have been hiding it before, or else Bruce just hadn’t been looking—there are no shadows under Clark’s eyes. His demeanor is as tired as everyone else’s, but his skin is as startlingly unblemished as his eyes are startlingly blue. If nothing else, he must be sleeping.

“Another whiskey?”

Bruce should really be getting back to the penthouse; he needs to call Alfred, and then he should—

(— _shouldn’t_ rest, shouldn’t stop, not until he’s managed to figure out something he can do to help, but he’s human, he’s _weak_ , and he needs—)

—sleep. At least for a couple hours, for the sake of… practicality. He won’t be of any help at all if Bruce Wayne is seen collapsing in public.

“Actually, I’ll have a soda water,” Bruce says.

“Does this mean you won’t be getting drunk enough to sing along to Livin’ on a Prayer with the rest of us?” Clark asks, grinning.

Bruce raises an eyebrow. “I haven’t heard you singing, either.”

“If they play Bohemian Rhapsody, I won’t be able to help myself,” Clark says, matter-of-fact, as he presses the button for soda water on the fountain drink dispenser.

“But you can resist Bon Jovi.”

“Only just.” Clark passes Bruce his drink. “I was just thinking, you know, maybe it would be unprofessional?”

“I don’t think anyone here would judge you too harshly,” Bruce says. He smiles crookedly. “Anyone other than me, I mean. What’s that song? ‘Whistle While You Work’? The world as we know it is inexorably changing in front of our eyes. If you want to join in on a little impromptu karaoke, by all means—no one would begrudge you that.”

A dark cloud settles over Clark’s expression and he pauses, silent and motionless, before shaking his head.

Bruce takes in the way Clark’s hands make fists at his sides before he unclenches his fingers and pushes them into the pockets of his jeans. Something about that tell—the frustration of it—makes Bruce think that maybe Clark feels as useless as he does.

Clark looks at Bruce—takes in the circles under his eyes, his uncombed hair, the tired line of his mouth—and seems to come to the same conclusion.

“You were here,” Clark infers. “The day it happened.”

Bruce nods, slow.

“Me too,” Clark says. He pauses again, thinking. “But you’re not from Metropolis.”

He’s not asking, so Bruce doesn’t answer—just looks steadily back at him.

“Me neither.”

* * *

It’s four in the morning when Clark gets back to his apartment and six-thirty when he wakes. The construction crews won’t be back to work til seven or eight, so he allows himself the rest.

(— _Do you think he gets tired? I don’t see a reason why he shouldn’t keep going at it all night. I don’t see a reason why he shouldn’t try a little harder_ —)

Clark stands at his kitchen counter with a glass of tap water and stares blankly at the sink. Maybe he should be doing more. Clark doesn’t need to sleep, or eat, or even breathe, but he—he likes to, because those are things that people do, and Clark just wants to be a person. All he’s ever wanted is to be normal, and… liked.

And now the whole world is very much aware that Clark is as abnormal as they come, and they either hate him for it or they worship him, and this is so far from what Clark dreamed of when he was a child that the disparity makes his head hurt.

He tries to clear it with a shake, goes to the door to retrieve his newspaper from the hallway—and then does a double take when he unrolls it and takes in the headline and accompanying photo.

_**Bruce Wayne announces planned reconstruction of Wayne Tower at Ground Zero** _  
_New skyscraper will rise from ashes of company’s fallen financial building, CEO says_

The photograph is of a harried-looking man outside an office building, looking into the cameras with a tight-lipped smile. He’s the man from the bar, Clark recognizes immediately. He’s the man who had looked at Clark and said in as many words that Superman wasn’t trying hard enough.

(He’s the man who had looked at Clark and had seemed to understand that Clark can’t do enough, no matter how hard he tries.)

It’s almost funny, the way that people can—can understand Clark Kent, can relate to him, can look at him and go, _hey, that guy’s just like the rest of us_. And then he dons his cape and suddenly no one’s thinking that at all. Suddenly Clark is a god. Suddenly he’s untouchable; unreachable.

Although, Clark thinks, if Bruce Wayne met Superman in a bar, he’d probably start a fight with him just like he would with any other guy. The unbidden mental image of Wayne in his impeccable suit glaring at Superman against a backdrop of Abba has him choking on a laugh as he swallows the last of his water.

It’s been over a week since the last time he’d laughed; the feeling of lightness it startles into him lingers for hours.

*

Clark doesn’t expect to see Bruce Wayne again—not in person, anyway—so it comes as a surprise when, a few days later, he shows up at the bar toward the end of Clark’s shift.

(His manager, Cat, is working tonight, which means that Clark doesn’t have to stay until close. He could even be home before one in the morning, for a change.

And then he looks up from checking his watch to see that unmistakable face come through the door, and somehow he—it doesn’t make sense, really, he doesn’t even know the man, but—he feels like wouldn’t actually mind if he got a little held up.)

“Hi again,” Clark says, smiling widely, when Wayne drops into the seat at the end of the bar.

And then feels his smile waver at Wayne’s answering frown.

(Clark was—Clark was overly friendly, maybe, because Wayne is a billionaire CEO who’s here because his work has tired him out and definitely not because he wants to socialize with—)

“Again,” Wayne repeats. “I’m hardly a regular patron.”

“I guess I’m just surprised to see you back here,” Clark says honestly. “Not bad-surprised, obviously, I mean—”

Wayne does smile at that, but he doesn’t look any friendlier for it. “You’ve realized who I am.”

“Well,” Clark says, “as much as I know who anyone is, without knowing anything other than their name and their day job. Can I get you a drink, Mr. Wayne?”

“I’ll have a soda water. Clark.” Wayne looks at him steadily; his eyes are slightly narrowed, but in a way that, thankfully, seems thoughtful rather than angry.

Clark can’t figure out if the use of his name is meant to intimidate or if it’s an invitation to call Wayne by his first name, too. He decides against asking, for now.

“Sure,” he says, and then adds: “My shift is over in a few minutes, though, so if you’re going to be wanting an actual drink—”

“Are you in a hurry?” Wayne asks, expression unreadable.

“Sir?” Clark says, confused.

“Are you in a hurry to get out here,” Wayne repeats. Something that’s either a smile or a smirk turns up one corner of his mouth. “Let me buy you a drink.”

“Oh, I don’t…” Clark starts. “Uh.”

(This is weird, Clark thinks. This is weird, right? The man had seemed all but offended that Clark had remembered him when he came in, and now he’s—he’s smirking at Clark over his glass of terrible soda water like he’s actually thinking about—God, what _is_ he thinking, because it can’t be what Clark thinks he’s—)

“You don’t drink?”

“No, I—sure. Yeah. That would be… good.”

“I have to step outside to make a phone call,” Wayne says, dropping a ten on the bar and standing up. “I’ll be back in five.”

“Sure,” Clark says again, and can absolutely not help but notice how well Wayne’s ridiculously expensive jacket fits him as he walks out the door. 

*

When Clark comes back upstairs after signing out for the night, he isn’t actually expecting Wayne to be there. Sure, Clark is hoping he will be. He hasn’t sat down and had a normal conversation with anyone as Clark Kent in two weeks. Not that whatever is happening here _is_ normal, because Wayne is clearly playing some kind of game, except—

—well, except that maybe it is just what it seems. People get hit on in bars every day. It’s not absurd to imagine that sometimes people get hit on by billionaires with great arms and weirdly intense eyes. It could happen to Clark. Right?

Still, he’s as surprised to see Wayne now—sitting alone, scrolling absently through his phone in one of the peeling red booths—as he had been when Wayne had walked through the door twenty minutes ago.

Wayne looks up when Clark takes a hesitant seat across from him. “I was half-expecting you to make a run for it,” he says, with a wry smile.

“I didn’t even think about it,” Clark admits.

“Hm.” Wayne steeples his fingers and looks over them at Clark with a small frown. “Where did you say you were from, again?”

“Kansas,” Clark says, although he’s pretty sure he hadn’t mentioned it before.

“The sunflower state,” Wayne says thoughtfully. And then: “Can you do martinis here?”

“Sure. I can’t guarantee they’re any good, I mean, I’m pretty sure our Vermouth is seven bucks a bottle, so I wouldn’t, uh… but, yes.” Clark winces, apologetic.

Wayne raises an eyebrow. “Would you drink it?”

“No,” Clark says. “But not—I mean, I don’t really mind if the liquor is cheap, but I don’t like gin.”

“And you think I would mind.”

“Well, you probably—that is to say, I guess I’m assuming you have a more, uh… refined taste. In alcohol.” Clark feels awkward, suddenly, like he’s saying all the wrong words but can’t get a grasp of what the right ones are supposed to be.

Then he realizes that if Wayne wanted something top-shelf, he definitely wouldn’t have picked this bar.

Before he can formulate that thought out loud, Cat materializes next to them. “Clark,” she says, acknowledging him with a nod, and then turns to Wayne with a wide smile. “Mr. Wayne! You’re looking well.”

“That’s what they pay me for,” Wayne says. His answering smile is tired. “If I ever got old or ugly—God forbid—they’d send me a one-way ticket to the glue factory.”

“Oh,” Cat says, her own smile faltering. “Uh—”

“We’ll have two martinis,” Clark says, saving Cat from having to answer that. “And can I get an extra olive?” 

“Yes, of course. I’ll be right back.”

Wayne looks intently at Clark from across the table, and his eyes are—he’s just—he’s looking at Clark like he’s _interesting_ , and somehow it’s not because he’d just shot laser beams from his eye sockets.

“What?” Clark says, a little defensively.

“I thought you didn’t like gin.”

“I haven’t had it in a while; it’s good to give second chances.”

“You really are from Kansas, aren’t you.”

“What? You don’t believe in second chances over in Gotham?”

“Second? Maybe. But in my experience, people keep getting second chances til they’re on their sixth, seventh, eighth chance, and then they still haven’t learned from the first one.”

Clark thinks about that. “Maybe some people,” he allows. “But most people… given another chance, they’d do things differently. Better. And if we don’t give them that chance, then we’ll never find out if they can change.”

Cat returns for a moment to set the martinis down on the table.

“Thanks, Cat,” Clark says, and reaches for the nearest drink.

Wayne clinks his own glass against Clark’s. “To Kansas,” he says.

“Cheers.”

Clark makes a face as he swallows his drink, and Wayne smiles crookedly at him. “Re-thinking your policy on second chances?”

“Why did they even decide to make a drink that tastes like evergreens,” Clark moans. “I mean, I like trees as much as the next person, but just because something’s pretty doesn’t mean you need to put it in your mouth.”

Wayne raises an eyebrow. “I hope you know there are least a dozen indecorous ways I could answer that.”

 _Aughhh_ , Clark thinks helplessly. Out loud, he says: “You _know_ what I meant.”

“Sure.” Wayne smirks. He seems to consider delivering one of his dozen indecorous lines, but takes pity on Clark instead. “So,” he says.

“So,” Clark repeats.

“So, you live in Metropolis now,” Wayne says.

“Yup.”

“Have you met anyone interesting?”

Clark half-wishes Wayne had gone with one of his bad come-ons, now: he has a feeling he isn’t going to like where this line of questioning is going.

“Well, I’ve met you.”

“Please,” Wayne says, gesturing dismissively with his martini. “There’s nothing remotely compelling about _me_.”

“Forgive me if I disagree, Mr. Wayne,” Clark says, half because he does think that Wayne is compelling, and half because he doesn’t want to talk about—

“ _Superman_ ,” Wayne says emphatically.

Clark sighs and hides his face behind his martini.

“Now there’s an interesting guy. The concept of wealth probably doesn’t even register to an alien who could throw a whole skyscraper into the sea if he was in a snit.”

It’s almost hilariously ironic that Wayne is saying this here, in Clark’s place of employment, where Clark works ten-hour shifts to earn enough tip money to pay rent on a one-bedroom apartment.

“He’s gotta live somewhere,” Clark points out. He fishes his olives out of his drink with a skewer and sticks them in his mouth.

“Does he? We don’t know anything about him. For all we know, he sleeps on a goddamn cloud.”

Clark hasn’t tried that, but the idea seems unappealing to say the least. 

“Hm,” he says.

“What would you say to him?” Wayne asks, still looking at Clark’s face with those intense eyes, made dark by the dim light of the bar. (They’re not dark at all, though. Clark had noticed that the first time they’d met. Wayne’s eyes are blue as ice and nearly as cold.) “What would you say to him, if you met him?”

Clark looks back at him uncertainly. What _would_ he say, if he were an ordinary citizen? What would he say if he didn’t know that Superman got tired, and paid rent, and slept in a double bed he’d bought off Craigslist for five dollars?

Clark hates that this city is a mess because of Kryptonians—because of him. He hates that he’d done everything he could and that it wasn’t enough. He hates that this is something he _can’t fix_ , no matter how many bridges he rebuilds, because nothing can glue a shattered family back together, not really. He’s assembling building blocks like so many puzzles, but there are countless pieces that will never be recovered; countless holes he can never, ever fill.

He’d read the newspaper article about Wayne Tower. Bruce Wayne had seen it fall. He’d seen it fall, and he’d seen Superman, and he’d known… he’d _known_ that Superman could have saved them all. That Superman had let this happen.

What’s more—Clark’s not even sure he’s wrong.

Clark stands, abandoning the last of his drink. He can’t answer Wayne’s question. He can’t pretend he knows what it feels like to have been on the ground that day, watching the sky fall.

Not when he was the one who sent it crashing.

“I’m sorry,” Clark says, aware that he’s saying too much—

(—not saying _enough_ , those words have become meaningless, but he doesn’t know any others, can’t think of anything else to—)

“I’m—I’m sorry.”

He can’t bring himself to look Wayne in the eye before he rushes out the door.

* * *

Bruce had been curious about Clark Kent the first time they’d met. It was his odd reaction to the topic of Superman and his mention of being a fellow out-of-towner (evidently the truth, given his unfamiliarity with Bruce Wayne) that triggered it. When Bruce did a little digging, however, he wasn’t actually expecting to find anything.

Clark Kent, born and raised in Smallville, Kansas, was tragically ordinary on paper. His father had died when he was younger. His mother still lived in Kansas.

It was Bruce’s cursory search of Smallville that raised red flags. It hadn’t made the news in Gotham or Metropolis, but the Kryptonians had devastated the Kent family’s farmhouse.

His first thought was that Clark was just like him—that Clark had watched Superman strangle a vital part of his life with his bare hands. That he had moved to Metropolis because that’s where Superman was. That he had dreams to make Superman pay.

Except that he didn’t seem to harbour any ill will toward the alien.

Bruce’s second thought was absurd, until Clark had all but confirmed it yesterday.

_I’m sorry._

Clark Kent, human, has nothing to be sorry for.

_Your world has sheltered one of my citizens._

Clark Kent’s home had been specifically targeted by the Kryptonians.

_He will look like you, but he is not one of you._

Given the evidence in front of him, Bruce doesn’t need to be the World’s Greatest Detective to recognize the truth.

*

A couple days later, Bruce meets with the mayor of Metropolis at City Hall for another charity-related photo op.

“Bruce,” Berkowitz says, shaking his hand again after they’ve retreated from public view. “Thank you again for your time.”

“It’s the least I can—” Bruce freezes as a figure appears in the doorway.

“Ah,” Berkowitz says, turning to face the newcomer. “Superman! You’re right on time.” He smiles at Bruce. “Have you two met?”

_Well._

“Not officially,” Bruce says dryly.

“No? We’ll have to fix that, won’t we? Superman, Bruce Wayne,” Berkowitz says, gesturing between them—and Bruce should step forward, shake his hand, but he’s still frozen in place, his face refusing to form even the most insincere of smiles.

It’s Superman who strides over and offers his hand, then, and Bruce—would refuse, wants to, but Berkowitz is right there, and outwardly rejecting Metropolis’s saviour in front of its mayor doesn’t feel politically wise at the moment.

Superman’s handshake is firm, but not in any way that betrays how powerful he is. Bruce grips his fingers a little more tightly than is necessary, just to—well, it’s not like Bruce can hurt the guy. If Superman even notices, he doesn’t show it.

“Mr. Wayne,” Superman says, nodding.

“Bruce, please,” Bruce says flippantly. He—it doesn’t make sense, he _knows_ the truth, but he can’t quite piece Clark Kent and Superman together in his mind. Clark is all soft hair and plaid flannel, bright eyes partially obscured by glasses. Superman isn’t anything like that. Even with the costume and the lack of glasses, though, Bruce thinks that the greatest difference between the two is one of demeanor: Superman’s solemn face lacks any trace of Clark’s easygoing smile.

“Superman is just updating me on the reconstruction efforts taking place downtown,” Berkowitz says.

“Of course,” Bruce says. “I’ll talk to you soon, Frank.”

“Bruce,” Superman says, his voice halting Bruce in his tracks as he turns toward the elevator. “I was hoping we might talk. I think that we have… similar interests.”

_Do we._

“I’ll be on the roof,” Bruce says, without turning around. He’s taking a chopper back to Gotham for the night. “I’m sure that getting up there won’t be any trouble for you.”

*

Superman takes the elevator like anyone might, which somehow irritates Bruce even more than if he’d flown out the goddamn window.

“You don’t trust me,” Superman says, coming to stand next to where Bruce is leaning against the railing.

“You noticed.”

“I’m just trying to help.”

Bruce’s fingers tighten against the railing.

“Historically, that’s worked out well.”

“I didn’t know this would happen. I thought I was—I was supposed to be the last survivor. Zod was imprisoned off-world, in the Phantom Zone, before Krypton was destroyed. That ended up being what saved him. He—they weren’t all like that. _I’m_ not like that.”

“Before Krypton was destroyed,” Bruce repeats flatly, as if saying the words will help him to determine their truthfulness. Superman sounds earnest, but he’s also successfully pretended to be human for God knows how long. That level of deception indicates a skilled liar and manipulator.

“It’s why my parents sent me to Earth.”

“So you were a scout,” Bruce infers. “You came here to determine if this planet would be useful for rebuilding your own world.”

“ _No_.” Bruce can hear the frown in Superman’s voice, even if he isn’t looking at him. “It was too late to save it. By the time the government had accepted that the planet’s unstable core would cause it to explode, there was no time to evacuate. Everyone died. My father was a scientist. He knew what was going to happen, but no one would listen to him. In the end, he and my mother were only able to save me.”

 _That level of deception indicates a skilled liar and manipulator_ , Bruce thinks again, half-desperate, but he can’t stop himself from—

“Your parents died.”

“Yes.”

_A dark alley, a handgun, pearls clattering across the sidewalk and into the gutter—_

“Why are you telling me this?”

The death of Thomas and Martha Wayne is a matter of public record. It would have been easy for Superman to find that out, to use Bruce’s weakness to gain sympathy—

“I wanted you to know the truth.”

“You could have given an interview. Don’t you have a friend at the Daily Planet? The whole world could learn the sad story of Superman, orphaned alien, lone survivor of a dead planet. Win over the skeptics. Gain the forgiveness of the ones you failed.”

“I’m not looking for your forgiveness. I don’t—”

“ _Why_ are you telling me this.”

Bruce turns, finally, to look in Superman’s solemn, self-righteous face, because if he sees that, it will be easier to—

“Because,” Superman says, and his voice is so quiet, his face so tired, that—for the first time—Bruce looks at him and sees the man who had sat across from him in a worn red booth and ordered a drink that he hated because he thought it deserved a second chance. “Because I wanted someone to understand. And I thought that you…”

Bruce waits, silent, for Clark to finish his sentence.

He doesn’t. He just looks away, and then looks at Bruce for another moment, a little frown creasing his perfect face, and then he takes off into the sky.

* * *

“So… have you seen Bruce Wayne again?” Cat asks, as she loads the glass washer at the bar.

“Uh,” Clark says. He thinks about his botched conversation on the roof of City Hall and winces.

Cat apparently interprets this as a _no_ ; she reaches up to give him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “He hasn’t called, huh? I could have told you that would happen. I can’t believe you even agreed to a date with that flaky bastard. I mean, he’s gorgeous, I’ll give you that, but he’s—”

“It wasn’t a date,” Clark says, very quickly. “He was… it was just…” Okay, honestly, he doesn’t know what it was, but it couldn’t have been—not when Bruce is so—

Cat ignores his stammering—which is fair, Clark thinks, because he hasn’t actually managed to form anything that’s convincingly a sentence—and barrels on. “Seriously, I know he does the philanthropy stuff, you know, donating to a zillion charities and all that, but it’s all for the tax breaks, he’s said it himself, so you can’t go believing every charming thing he—”

“What?” Clark says, his frown deepening.

“—says.” Cat looks incredulously back at him. “Come on, Clark. You’re not naive enough to think he actually cares about anything other than himself, are you?”

“He does,” Clark says. “Why do you—”

“Damn.” Cat shakes her head, clearly realizing something. “You don’t know anything about him. Do you? He’s in the gossip rags every week around here, but I guess no one pays attention to Gotham trash in Kans—”

“He’s _not_ tr—”

“He sleeps through board meetings,” Cat interrupts, “when he bothers to show up to work at all. He sleeps _with_ every brainless socialite in Gotham _and_ Metropolis. He flirts with anything that moves, never gives a genuine answer to a question, and never treats anything with the gravity it deserves. I mean it, Clark. You’re better off keeping your distance from him, unless all you want is a memorable one night stand.”

Clark takes in the words, but he can’t—he doesn’t understand why Cat is saying them. How she could honestly believe that Bruce doesn’t—

“I’m sorry, Clark,” Cat says, and touches his shoulder again before she turns to bring the cash box downstairs. “Okay. Go home, be free, and don’t think about Bruce Wayne. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

*

Clark goes home and thinks about Bruce Wayne. He doesn’t actually try not to, but even if he had tried, the letter in his mailbox would have derailed his efforts completely.

On the outside, it’s addressed to Clark Kent.

On the inside, it’s a printed invitation for Superman to attend Bruce Wayne’s upcoming fundraising gala.

There is a handwritten note on the back that reads simply: _Hope to see you there. —B_

*

Clark has shaken the hands of at least seventy-five people, exchanged small talk with at least fifty of them, and eaten at least twenty-five little cheese cubes on wooden skewers before he even gets to _see_ Bruce.

Bruce, who manages to show up two hours late to his own party, each arm around a different hot blonde, perfectly tailored suit accentuating his broad shoulders, collar pin sparkling under the light of the chandeliers, and—and it isn’t like he hasn’t been dressed to the nines any other time Clark’s seen him, but Bruce’s effect in this environment is completely unfamiliar. In the most obvious ways, he looks the same. But in others—his eyes have a brightness to them Clark hasn’t seen before, his mouth is turned up in a careless smile, and he had clearly taken the time to style his hair before someone had run their hands through it.

And despite all that, he doesn’t seem any warmer than he had before. Instead, the effect is—it’s nonchalant, almost louche. It makes him look like an entirely different person.

Clark resumes his round of handshaking, keeping Bruce in his peripheral vision as he laughs and kisses cheeks and throws out compliments to everyone he passes like it’s Halloween and he’s realized he’d bought three more boxes of Kit Kats than he really needed and now he has to get rid of them all before the night ends and he’s tempted to eat them all himself and—okay, maybe that _had_ happened to Clark one year, but it’s not relevant right now, not relevant at all, because Bruce is finally making his way to—

“Superman,” Bruce says, smiling widely as he offers Clark a hand. 

“Mr. Wayne,” Clark says warily, accepting the handshake.

The last time, at City Hall, Bruce had gripped Clark’s hand like he wanted to let him know that he would hurt him if he could. This time, he just—

—he shakes Clark’s hand, and then he _doesn’t let go_.

“I told you—call me Bruce,” he says. “I don’t pay you to ‘Mr. Wayne’ me.” And then his eyes slide down to Clark’s chest and his friendly smile is suddenly more of a leer. “The suit really works for you. _Mm_. It would be a goddamn shame if you ever decided to hide—” he gestures at the musculature of Clark’s chest, his arms, “— _that_.” 

“Sir—”

“I mean it, Supes. You’re a work of art.”

Clark tugs his hand free and takes a half-step back. “ _Bruce_ ,” he says.

Undeterred, Bruce takes a step closer, effectively trapping Clark against a table of canapes, and lowers his voice. “Why did you come here?”

Clark frowns. “You invited me.”

“Superman has received invitations to dozens of events this month. I can count on one hand the number of times he’s accepted. Why accept this one?”

 _Because I… wanted to see you_ , Clark doesn’t say. _Because I don’t feel like I have to pretend to be something I’m not when I’m around you. Because you know who I am. Because I thought that maybe you understood that._

“It seemed like a worthwhile cause.”

“Worthwhile,” Bruce echoes, and cocks an eyebrow. His hands come up to rest on the table on either side of Clark’s hips, and to a bystander it probably looks like he’s flirting, but from where Clark is standing, it feels more like intimidation.

“Where did your dates go?” Clark tries, because the best course of action at this point is clearly to free himself from Bruce’s clutches get the hell out of here. “I’m sure they’re looking for you.”

“The dancers? Funny you should mention them.” Bruce leans in close enough that Clark can feel the heat radiating off him, and it’s suddenly extremely hard to maintain a semblance of normal human breathing. “I’m really more into brunettes.”

 _Okay_ , so maybe intimidation and flirtation aren’t mutually exclusive. Clark should move Bruce’s arms out of the way, put a socially acceptable amount of space between them, but his feet stay rooted to the spot.

“Why did you invite me?” Clark asks. His voice comes out pretty evenly, which is a relief, because he’s pretty sure his ears have gone red.

“Well, _Superman_ ,” Bruce says, lifting one hand from the table to trace an index finger over the crest of the House of El—and it’s good, actually, that Clark doesn’t need air, because there’s no way he’s even pretending to breathe right now. “Maybe I think you’re _interesting_.”

It could have been a convincingly genuine answer, if not for the way he punctuates the sentence with a truly obnoxious wink.

And honestly, Clark is glad that he does, because the absurdity of it is enough to snap him back to reality, which is—which is that _this_ isn’t _Bruce_.

This isn’t the man who had smiled at the idea of Clark belting out Bon Jovi songs at work. This isn’t the man who had worn himself out doing everything in his power to help in the aftermath of disaster—who _does_ everything he can, day in and day out, and still goes home feeling that it will never be enough. This isn’t the man who cares so goddamn much about people that Clark can see the sincerity of—of his _heart_ , fuck it, Clark’s not afraid to be sentimental—etched into every single one of his features.

This _isn’t_ Bruce.

Clark thinks about this for a moment, and then he looks Bruce in the eye and says, “Frankly, Bruce, I think you’re full of it.”

“Am I.”

“You may have everyone else here fooled, but I know better. You’re not lazy, or stupid, or whatever else you’re pretending to be.”

Bruce’s eyes narrow. “You sound pretty sure of yourself, Boy Scout. I hate to break it to you, but you don’t know me.”

“Maybe I don’t,” Clark allows. “But I’d like to. Just—not like this.” And he reaches out, now—gently touches Bruce’s left arm where it’s still braced against Clark’s hip, and moves it aside so that he can step away. “Thank you for the invitation, Bruce. I hope you enjoy the rest of your night.”

He’s already starting toward the door when Bruce speaks again.

“Wait.”

The tone of his voice stops Clark in his tracks; has him walking back to hear Bruce out, just in case he’s finally decided to say something that matters.

Except that Bruce doesn’t say anything more. Clark watches as Bruce procures a pen from somewhere on his person and leans over the table to scribble something down on a napkin—stands, folds it into quarters, and then reaches out to press it into Clark’s hands.

He looks Clark in the eye for a moment, quiet, and finally says: “Only if you want.”

And then he turns and walks away.

* * *

Bruce is standing on the balcony of his Metropolis penthouse when he hears the knock at his door. He’d been expecting it—

(—except for all the ways he hadn’t, because why would Superman agree to see him again? How could such a powerful being be genuinely interested in a broken— _breakable, fragile, human_ —man? Surely, it would be unreasonable to _expect_ —)

—but the sound still makes Bruce’s heart skip a beat. He takes a few steadying breaths to regulate its rhythm.

A full minute passes. Bruce unbolts the door.

“Clark,” he says, by way of greeting, because—because it _is_ Clark, standing there at his door. He’s wearing dark jeans, a ridiculous plaid shirt, and a sheepish smile.

“Hey there,” Clark says. “Okay, so—funny story. The pen kinda smudged where you wrote down the code for the elevator, so I ended up punching it in wrong, like, three times, and there was this glowy red message that was all ‘you get _one_ more try before the concierge comes to eat you!’ and I realized I couldn’t even call you to ask—I mean, you didn’t give me a phone number, so—anyway, I didn’t wanna go talk to the concierge, ‘cause he would have kicked me out for sure. Luckily I had one more shot and I was running out of numbers to try, so I ended up getting the right one.” He beams at Bruce. “And now I’m here.”

“Come in,” Bruce says, stepping back to allow Clark to cross the threshold.

Inside, Clark visibly does a double take. “ _Wow_ ,” he says. “Holy—geez.”

Bruce closes the door behind them and then turns to watch Clark’s eyes go wide. “You could have come in through the balcony,” Bruce reminds him.

“I thought about it, but—it seemed rude, somehow? Like since I had all the magic passcodes to your secret billionaire lair, I had to use them. Jesus, Bruce—my whole apartment could fit in your kitchen. This place is _massive_.”

“This _place_ frequently plays host to a number of events,” Bruce says. “Basically, it’s made to be showy—”

“Like Bruce Wayne,” Clark says knowingly.

“—hence the kitchen with the fully stocked bar,” Bruce finishes, ignoring Clark’s interruption. He makes his way over to the aforementioned bar and Clark follows, leaving his shoes at the front door.

“You really do live here in Metropolis, don’t you,” Bruce says.

“Yep.” Clark shrugs a shoulder. “Sorry to disappoint, but clouds are all kinds of wet. You ever try sleeping in a damp sleeping bag? Feels awful.”

“Hm.”

“Although, you don’t really seem like the camping type,” Clark adds pensively. “It’s the suit, I think. It kinda screams, ‘I’m worth a fortune, please don’t ruin me with outdoor activity’.”

“Clark,” Bruce says flatly. “I’ve been camping before.” And then—before Clark can begin to extol the virtues of overnighting in a tent—asks: “Are you really a bartender?”

“Sure,” Clark says, with a hint of confusion. “It’s my job. I go there, I make tips, I pay rent.”

Bruce looks at him, considering. Looks at Clark—at _Superman, God_ —standing in Bruce’s kitchen in his socks, telling Bruce that he’d worried showing up on the balcony would be impolite, that he works at a bar to pay rent on a tiny apartment here in Metropolis, that he’s been camping, that he’s— _fuck_ , he’s—

He’s just so normal, so _human_ , that it makes Bruce’s head reel a little. 

“Prove it.”

“What? You literally met me at work, Bruce. Or have you—oh,” Clark says, noticing Bruce’s smirk.

“Prove it,” Bruce says again. He raises a challenging eyebrow. “Make me a drink.”

Clark leans back against the counter and crosses his arms. “What do you want?”

“Dealer’s choice.”

“So, like… anything? Or do you have a—”

“Whatever you make.”

“Okay,” Clark says. Neither of them moves. “Uh. Are you just gonna stand there and watch me?”

“It’s my kitchen.”

“What if I want to surprise you?”

_You already have._

Bruce moves to the other side of the counter to sit, picking up a newspaper and hiding his face behind it like he’s pretending to read. “Better?”

“Yes. Stay there.”

Bruce stays there. Reads the same headline at least fourteen times. Listens as Clark opens the fridge, the cupboards, in search of everything he needs. Two minutes later, Clark sets a glass down on the counter.

“Am I allowed to move?” Bruce asks dryly. He folds the paper without waiting for an answer. The first thing he sees is Clark’s brilliant smile, which hits Bruce so hard that he has to look away immediately. The second thing he sees is the highball glass with—“Is that a rum and Coke?”

“Yep.”

“You could have made any drink in the world,” Bruce says slowly, “and you chose the Cuba Libre.”

“It’s a classic for a reason.”

“It’s _Coca-Cola_. Clark. Why are you laughing?”

“Because! God, because the last time we talked about drinks, you got all huffy when I assumed you preferred expensive things. And now here you are, all, ‘Clark, this is the most lowbrow of drinks’. Admit it—I was right!”

“It’s not about being expensive. It’s about art.”

“What? You don’t think a rum and Coke can be done artfully?”

“If Michelangelo’s David had been carved from butter, would it be considered a pinnacle of artistic achievement?”

“Well, it would have melted,” Clark says diplomatically.

“The point,” Bruce continues, exasperated, “is that the tools you use to do any job are crucial. And _Coke_ is not—”

“Are you going to drink it or not?”

(Bruce drinks it.)

*

Bruce makes Clark a cocktail, too—mezcal, Chambord, chocolate bitters, topped with coconut foam and chopped pistachios, just to be annoying.

Frankly, it’s worth it for the way Clark’s eyes close and the inappropriately pleased sound he makes at the back of his throat.

*

“I’m glad you don’t hate me,” Clark admits, once they’ve moved on to one of Bruce Wayne’s absurdly expensive wines. “I mean… it’s just, if you did? I couldn’t blame you. But I’m still glad that you don’t.”

 _Who says I don’t?_ Bruce almost says. _Would_ say, if it would fool anyone at all. Jesus—what is he doing? He’d invited Superman into his home, _trusted_ him to—

“Why do you try so hard to make people think you’re awful?” Clark asks. He’s sitting next to Bruce now, elbows propped up on the counter as he looks over at him.

“I don’t have to try very hard.”

“Ha ha.”

“Clark.”

“I mean it, Bruce. I know acting when I see it. Why do you hide how much you care? Why pretend to be so…” Clark pauses, clearly fishing for a way to describe the Bruce he’d met at the fundraiser.

“Awful?” Bruce finishes for him, borrowing Clark’s word with a small smile.

“Your come-ons are terrible, for the record. ‘You’re a work of art’?” Clark shakes his head tragically. “Do people really fall for lines like that?”

Bruce raises an eyebrow. “I meant that one.”

“Sure.”

Bruce looks at Clark; takes in the vivid blue of his eyes, the perfect shape of his mouth, the way that even his godawful flannel can’t quite disguise the breadth of his shoulders. _Objectively_ , he’s—

“Wait,” Clark says, face going serious, and Bruce turns away. “Bruce.”

“Why _did_ you come here?” Bruce asks in a low voice. “Why do you care that I—Why does anything I say or do matter to you? There’s no goddamn reason for you to care about any of us.”

Because that’s the thing, isn’t it? Superman has power beyond belief, and Bruce had—had expected that Clark should serve this planet like an eternal, unbreakable soldier. Hadn’t stopped to consider that Clark doesn’t owe the world his devotion—his life—any more than anyone else does.

Clark frowns. “Why wouldn’t I? The things you care about—truth and justice; the goodness of people. I care about them, too.”

“But you don’t have to,” Bruce insists. “No one can reasonably expect to hold you to same values that—”

“I know,” Clark says quietly. “I _know_. But I _want_ to.” Clark pushes a stray curl of hair from his forehead. “I mean—no one _has_ to be good. No one’s forcing you at gunpoint to donate millions to a city you don’t even call home. You’re doing it because you want to. Because you care. And at the end of the day, that’s all there is to it.”

Bruce doesn’t answer. Tactically, believing that Clark is telling the truth can only be dangerous. Even if he has every intention of doing good right now, the right circumstances will push anyone over the line.

Bruce has seen firsthand what happens when good men break.

“Bruce,” Clark says, and he’s reached out to touch him, fingers gentle against Bruce’s wrist where it rests against the counter. “Do you believe me now?”

Bruce shouldn’t. Bruce should ask Clark to leave. Bruce should do any number of things that aren’t this, but—

“I believe you,” he says. He doesn’t tell Clark to take his hand away.

Clark smiles then, sudden and beatific, and Bruce doesn’t think he could move even if he wanted to.

“I’m glad,” Clark says, sounding it. “Also, I have a confession to make.”

Bruce frowns.

“It’s nothing _bad_. Just—you asked me earlier why I accepted your invitation.”

“Hmm. You never did answer.”

“I assumed you knew.” Clark still hasn’t removed his hand from Bruce’s arm; the warmth of him seeping into Bruce’s skin beneath his rolled-up shirtsleeves is simultaneously wonderful and unbearable.

“Tell me anyway,” Bruce says, very quiet, because the answer seems absurd when Bruce thinks it, but maybe if it’s spoken out loud—

“It’s simple, really,” Clark says, and lifts his other hand to the side of Bruce’s face, his palm soft against the angle of Bruce’s jaw. “I like you.”

 _You shouldn’t_ , Bruce thinks. He leans into Clark’s touch, just a little, because it feels—nice. It feels nice, and maybe he can—

“Why?” he asks, before his voice leaves him completely.

“Jesus, Bruce—do you ever stop questioning things?”

“That was a question,” Bruce points out, but he feels his mouth twisting up into a smile despite himself.

“Shut up,” Clark says, infinitely fond, and kisses him.

* * *

Clark meets Bruce at the docks in Gotham one day—Bruce had left him a note on the kitchen table with a time and place and a cryptic ‘there’s something I need to show you’.

“Huh,” Clark says, grinning, when Batman drops down from the roof. “The suit really works for you.”

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to state for the record that this fic was entirely prompted by the song Delicate by Taylor Swift. In particular, these lyrics:
> 
> _this ain’t for the best / my reputation’s never been worse, so / you must like me for me… / we can’t make / any promises now, can we, babe / but you can make me a drink._
> 
> Find me on Tumblr [@lesbidar](http://lesbidar.tumblr.com)!


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